


Embering In Coals Of My Soul

by Reddragon1995



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Beach Sex, Cheating, Daenerys is Queen of the 6 K, Daenerys is bethrothed, F/M, Flirting, Infidelity, Jon is KitN, Jon is married, Jon is not perfect in fact, Jonerys, Not Jonerys endgame per se, Not show canon compliant because why would I do that, Paternity Intrigue, R Plus L Equals J, Rekindled Romance, Smut, daenerys is not a mad queen, drabble turned one shot, dragon riding, ooc Jon, open ended conclusion, post canon au, tw: stillbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26448880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reddragon1995/pseuds/Reddragon1995
Summary: After the Great War, Daenerys Targaryen reclaimed the throne of her ancestors, while Jon Snow returned to the North to reign as its King. Jon has done his duty in taking a wife, and Daenerys has chosen the widower Edmure Tully to be her husband. But when Jon arrives in King's Landing for his aunt's wedding, feelings he's tried for so long to bury threaten to breach the surface.
Relationships: Daenerys Targaryen/Edmure Tully, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Unnamed Female Character
Comments: 100
Kudos: 406





	Embering In Coals Of My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> So I've always been intrigued by the realities Daenerys would face if she claimed the Iron Throne and didn't marry Jon, and I keep landing on the idea of her marrying Edmure Tully if he were available. So, in this fic, he is, though he's only mentioned. How would Jon and Daenerys grapple with their lingering feelings for each other if they went their separate ways? Let's find out.
> 
> Jon is a good bit OOC in this fic (show!Jon anyway). At some point, everyone's honor breaks. Love is the death of duty, after all. So if you're looking for infallible Jon, you won't find him here.
> 
> This is not compliant with the TV show though a few elements from that disaster are referenced.
> 
> Editing to add: Gorgeous Mood Board by the wondrous Elena!

_  
_

_  
_

_She could not be unloved_

_the fire she had lit inside me would burn forever_

_embering in coals of my soul_

_waiting for the slightest_

_chance to rekindle the fury of our love's strange rage_

_~Atticus_

  


He’s nervous. As much as he was the first night he knocked on her door. Maybe more. He hasn’t seen her for years. Much has happened since then, making what was once between them a distant memory. But not for him. As he waits, he considers that if he’d made different decisions back then, he wouldn’t be here now; at least, not in this capacity. And that would be a good thing.

He doesn’t give a fuck about protocol. He never did. If he were proper, his presence and titles would be announced, but they don’t need to do that. She knows who he is. 

He and his guards stare down the four Unsullied standing sentry at her solar door. They wear crimson capes embroidered with the three-headed dragon sigil. They still have their spears, and their helms are only slightly different than he recalls. They are as immovable as ever, ready to gut anyone who so much as looks wrongly at their Queen.

It makes him feel better.

He hated leaving her down here in this snake pit. But there was no way around it, because he didn’t have the will to admit what he wanted at the time. She’s done quite well for herself without him, though. The Realm is unquestionably hers. No doubt dragons were useful in that regard, but it hasn’t just been through fear that she’s brought her kingdom to heel. 

The doors finally open, and he enters. He motions for his guards to wait outside. She sits at an absurdly large desk that could accommodate a minor feast in a pinch. She is reviewing correspondence with Missandei. It makes him smile a little. Duty never rests. She doesn’t address him right away, always on game. He’d seen her earlier in the throne room when he arrived and was formally received. She was just as he remembered, and his heart still seized at the sight of her, and does now as well.

By and by, she looks up and acknowledges him.

“Your Grace,” she drawls.

His cloak suddenly feels heavy and hot. He inclines his head. “Your Grace. Might I have a word with you alone?”

A smug smile ghosts her lips as she looks to Missandei and nods. Her Hand and the few servants and guards in the room obediently file out. When they’re gone, he’s suddenly at a loss. The years have not made him more loquacious. Usually Sansa does the talking, but it’s best to keep her apart from Queen Daenerys, even after all this time.

When she stands, his breath is taken. Just as it always was. She’s as lovely as ever. Her hair isn’t wound in the intricate braids she wore the day they parted, but cascades down her back in lush curls. She wears a simple circlet of gleaming silver and rubies. Her sleeveless gown is violet, the deep V dipping to her navel, and her eyes almost appear the same shade in this light, not that he’s looking that closely. 

As she walks past him to pour a glass of wine, he catches a whiff of her perfume, and it hurtles him back in time, to nights spent naked atop the furs, exploring and tantalizing one another, bringing each other to the apex of pleasure.

He can’t think of that right now.

His tongue feels thick in his mouth, and his throat is dry.

“Time has been kind to you,” is all he can manage.

“Has it been so much time?” she replies, bemused.

“Near three years.”

“That long?”

“Aye.”

Her smile broadens. “You look very well, Your Grace. You haven’t changed much.” Her eyes take the measure of him head to foot, and he suspects she’s teasing him. Indeed, he’s wearing the same cloak, his hair is still pulled back into a knot, and he’s dressed black and brown. Sansa has chided him from time to time that he needs to inject some more color into his wardrobe, but it feels out of place. 

She offers him wine and he accepts. “Don’t worry, we have plenty of barrels of ale for the celebrations to come,” she assures him. Then they sit together on the chaise in front of the hearth.

“How fares your Queen?” she asks after a time.

He shifts nervously. “I’m afraid her health would not allow her to make the journey.”

“Of course. I was sorry to hear of your babe.” Her gaze becomes cloudy and faraway. “I understand that pain. To look forward for months to holding your child in your arms, only for it to be snatched away before you have the chance.” The sadness is genuine, he knows. Long ago she spoke to him of the son she lost, and the manner in which he was taken. She blamed herself, but no one is to blame for these things. It’s the will of the gods. But it doesn’t make it easier. He never saw himself being a father, but for the few times he imagined her belly full of his child, but after the war, he did his duty, and wed. His wife is a good woman, though he does not love her the way a husband should. He respects her, he feels responsible for her, and he’ll do right by her for as long as he can, but the stillbirths have driven a wedge between them. It was her second, and the Maester has cautioned that if a third occurs, no further efforts should be made to conceive, as she may not survive. His wife is of strong Northern stock, sturdy and sure, but all the death has chipped away at her, one piece at a time. Him too, if he's being candid.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” is all he says.

“You know, Jon, I never thought I’d live to see the day that you stepped one toe south of The Neck again,” she deflects, to his relief. She peers at him over the rim of her goblet, the melancholy in her eyes replaced with mirth.

“It would have been rude of me not to come.”

“It would have been rude of me not to invite you.”

“I’d have lived,” he says with a humorless chuckle. These certainly aren’t the circumstances under which he hoped they'd be reunited, and he has hoped for it, many times. He hates that it has to be this way.

“Lord Edmure insisted. He is kin to your family after all.”

The thought makes him sick. He doesn’t really know Lord Tully, but he knew enough of the man’s sisters to not be celebrating his betrothal to Daenerys. It’s purely political. His Frey bride died in childbirth, and left him with a young son, and he’s the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, a region that has been slow to accept Daenerys’ rule, from what Jon has heard. Not that he tries to hear. Not that he cares what occurs in the south. Why should he? The North is enough of a problem to manage. But in his heart, he does care, because it’s Daenerys, and he cares about everything where she’s concerned, even if he shouldn’t. And it took no time in her presence for the dam that holds his feelings at bay to crack. He’s not sure how he’s going to last.

“So, are you looking forward to your wedding?” 

“Is that why you wanted to have a word with me?” Her eyes twinkle, and that dimple on her cheek indents. He swallows hard. She’s flirting with him. To what end, he doesn’t know. But a large part of him, the part that grows more weary every day of holding honor above all else, doesn’t particularly give a shit.

“Actually no.” He just wanted to see her.

“Well it’s funny. You asked for a private word, but I am the one carrying the conversation.” She places her hand on his knee, and it’s like fire to his flesh, though not one from which he wants to retreat. “Did you miss me, Your Grace?” She hasn’t moved her hand from his leg. His groin stirs, and he closes his eyes. He forces himself to his feet.

“It was a pleasure to see you again, Your Grace,” he stammers. He straightens his cloak. He’s half erect and it presses against his trousers. He hopes his doublet conceals it. But he knows she recognizes the look in his eye, because he sees it reflected in hers. He knows that when he’s in bed alone tonight, he’ll have to take himself in hand. Just like he does quite often at home.

It is the way of his life, and there’s nothing to be done for it. He tugs at his collar and hopes she doesn’t notice, and turns to leave.

“Your Grace,” she calls after him, and he stops. She saunters up to him, her breasts bouncing as she approaches. He balls his fists to quell the urge to touch. “You’ll want to see Rhaegal.”

He blinks. “Of course, is he in the city?”

“He will be. He knew you’d be coming. They aren’t far off.”

One of the things she’d agreed to when she took the throne was that the dragons would remain at Dragonstone, unless she had need of them. Couldn’t have the public living in constant fear of being and snatched or burned because they were mistaken for livestock. And fear is not her preferred course for ruling. It's just be a tool she can use if she needs to. 

He prays she never needs to. 

He has missed the great green beast, though. Their bond was easily formed, and is no more broken than is his bond to her. Sometimes he wishes he could summon the dragon to the North. Sometimes he wishes he could have kept her there, too. That they’d stayed at that waterfall, just like she said, even if she was only musing.

She stands on her tiptoes. “Meet me in the Dragon Pit at midnight,” she purrs, her breath tickling his ear. “We’ll go flying, like we used to. And come alone.”

He can’t say no.

________________________

He feels like a boy again, sneaking down to the kitchens for a late night sweet, or to the Winter Town brothel with Robb and Theon. Turns out that, as King, it’s harder to go where one pleases by oneself. He had to explain to Rory, his guard, at least six times that he was fine, but had a private errand to attend, and he threatened to geld the poor lad if he dared breathe a word. 

He follows the dark passageway below the Red Keep for what seems like miles, until he finally feels the incline as he reaches Rhaenys’ Hill. As he gets closer, the hairs on his neck rise, and a warmth washes over him; not from the heat of the air, but from dragons. She’s waiting for him at the ramp that leads to the Dragon Pit proper, clad in a lambskin coat, her hair pulled into a long plait. A far cry from how she looked at supper earlier, with her regal gown of scarlet velvet and silk, and her curls woven with ribbons. He could barely keep his eyes off her all night. Sansa scolded him afterward, but what was expected in the presence of the most beautiful woman in the world?

The most beautiful woman, who’d been so close to being _his,_ before he allowed his confusion about their blood relation to drive them apart. What a fool he was. No longer sleeping with her never did stem the desire to sleep with her. He’d had only one woman before Daenerys, so he had little basis for comparison at the time, but he was quite certain that no one could do to him, or make him feel, the things she could. Certainly not his wife, the gods keep her. Daenerys was always wild and passionate, and loved him with abandon. When he’d fuck her, she’d keep her eyes locked on his, and he could never look away, drawn in to those blue whorls of lust and longing and adoration. They were the only people in the world when they moved together as one. He misses that feeling most of all.

She smiles shyly as he approaches. By the torchlight, he thinks he sees her blush.  
  


“Did anyone see you?”

“No,” he says.

“Shall we, then?”

They ascend the ramp, and meet her sons.

They fly to Dragonstone. It takes about an hour, by the position of the moon in the sky, but it’s the most freeing hour he’s enjoyed in years. Up here, everything below is so small and insignificant, and it makes him feel powerful. Invincible, even. And it’s something that only they share, out of all the people in the world. It’s their blood. It’s their bond. 

They land quietly on a strip of beach he remembers well. He gives Rhaegal a rub on his scruff, and the dragon purrs his affection before flying off again. They never stay still for long, unless they’re napping. 

The night is clear, and the moonlight shimmers like diamonds across the flat calm of the sea. The rhythmic sound of the surf lulls him. For as much as he likes to pretend that nowhere but the North could ever be home to him, Dragonstone does have a powerful allure. It makes him contemplate his ancestors. It makes him remember when he first met her, and how enthralled he was, how instantly and powerfully attracted, as though his heart already knew the truth. And he’s suddenly overcome.

She doesn’t miss it. “Are you alright? You’re not going to be sick are you?”

“That was one time,” he mutters. 

She laughs. “Come, sit with me. We can watch the sun rise.”

“The sun won’t be rising for a bit.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to find some way to pass the time.”

He can’t really see her face well in the dark, but he wishes he could, because he’d like to know if she’s toying with him, if she’s being serious, or what she means, exactly. He can imagine, and it’s enough to make him weak kneed. But there is a niggling guilt all the same. He has a wife. A decent woman, and dutiful. He knows most men do not shy away from infidelity, but he is not like other men. Not like his father, who set aside a devoted wife in favor of a younger mistress. It doesn’t matter that they were wed later. It doesn’t change what Rhaegar did, regardless of why he did it. Still, he can’t stop himself fantasizing about Daenerys, especially with her right in front of him. He wonders what would happen if he threw caution to the wind and took her, right here on this beach. Would she protest? Would she deny him, out of respect for her betrothed? Does she still think of him that way at all?

She takes his hand and leads him toward a rock formation close to the water. She removes her coat and spreads it over the rock. She’s wearing a simple long sleeved shift and trousers beneath it, and is still more beautiful than she is in her fanciest dresses and jewels. Here, she’s just Dany, not the Dragon Queen, not the Protector of the Realm, but his blood and his love.

She produces a wine skin that she must have had tucked in her coat, takes a drink, and offers one to him. Dornish strongwine. Precious little of it could knock a wildling on his ass, and Jon already had plenty at supper, though the effects have mostly worn off. He takes another long gulp and already feels it in his arms and legs as they push themselves up onto the rock and sit together, gazing East toward the land she came from.

“You didn’t answer me earlier,” he comments by and by.

“What was the question?” She brings the skin to her lips again, and his eyes linger at the sight of them parting, so full and pink and soft.

“Are you looking forward to your wedding?”

Daenerys shrugs. “I’ve had two already. The novelty has rather worn off.”

He cringes to think of that. Of the circumstances behind it. He should have been there to keep her safe. But he wasn’t.

“Do you love him?” He can’t help but ask, though he dreads the answer.

She looks away. “Do you love your Queen?”

He can stand it no longer, and shifts closer to her. His fingers reach to caress her face, and he tilts her chin, compelling her to look at him.

“I will always love my Queen.”

He brings his face closer to hers but she stops him, placing her fingers on his lips.

“You don’t love me, Jon. If you did, truly, we wouldn’t be here now.”

He circles his fingers around her wrist and draws her closer, placing a kiss on her palm. His conscience screams at him to stop, to think of his wife, his responsibilities, but he cannot. He may never see Daenerys again in his life once she weds. He’d have no legitimate reason to. He made the mistake of letting her go years ago, and it can’t be undone, but for one night - one moment even - if he can feel again what he did when they were together, his honor could get fucked. He locks eyes with her, saying more than he ever could with words, and their lips meet.

It’s like coming home. She tastes of berries and wine. Her tongue is like velvet as it brushes against his. She pushes his cloak from his shoulders, then climbs on his lap. Her fingers thread through his hair. He can feel her heart beating, and her ragged breaths. He wants to devour her. He pulls his lips away reluctantly.

“Lie back,” he snarls. She obeys. He loves that she is a Queen, but when they’re like this, she is as beholden to him as he is to her. All he can think of is getting his tongue wet with her juices, of licking and sucking until she is crazed, of hurling her off the edge of that cliff, then following her to oblivion. His balls ache with want. His cock throbs and pulses. He hasn’t felt like this in years. He functions for his wife, but there is no passion. Not like with his Dany, his one love. 

He scoots off the rock, and eases her trousers down her legs, kissing her silky flesh inch by inch as he uncovers it. Her honey pot is bare and it drives him mad. When her trousers are around her ankles - he can’t be bothered to remove her boots to get them off the rest of the way - he spreads her legs wide. It’s so wrong, yet has never felt more right. She’s his kinswoman, not his wife. She is to wed another. That doesn’t matter to him now. Only their love. Only tonight. 

Her cunt glistens in the moonlight. He slips a finger inside, then another, and the sound and smell of it has him at the brink. If he gets inside her he won’t last long. Her back arches. Her hard nipples press against the linen shift, and he skates one hand up the flat plane of her belly and closes it around her breast, toying with her nipple while his other hand pumps inside her cunt. When he can take it no longer, he drops to his knees, the shells and pebbles in the sand digging into his skin, but he cares not. He just wants to taste her, so he does, first with the tip of his tongue swiping over her delicate nub. She cries out and arches her back more. With both hands, she grabs his hair on either side of his head, guiding him. His name falls from her lips breathlessly. He can feel her release nearing, and wants to make it last, but she grasps his head and buries his face deeper into her sex. He flicks his tongue purposefully as he curls his fingers forward to target the spot that makes her come undone, and before he knows it she’s grinding wildly against his mouth, her hips bucking then stilling as he draws her climax from her and his name rents the night air like a dragon’s song.

He slips his fingers from her, massaging her shapely thighs as her panting subsides. Then he stands, and leans over her, and kisses her, sharing her taste with her. She moans into his mouth, an action that fires straight to hs cock. He’s never been harder, never wanted her more than he does right now. He pulls back and stares into her eyes.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he growls. “You’re mine. Only mine, My Queen. Isn’t that right?”

She leans up to meet him, and grabs his neck. “Yours, My King.” She bites his lip, drawing blood. But he’s brought out the dragon’s fangs now. He urges her forward and positions himself between her legs as she claws at the ties of his trousers and frees his cock. He nearly comes as her fingers wrap around it. He yelps but she swallows it with a fierce kiss. Suddenly the material of his doublet and her shift are suffocating, so he breaks the kiss and they remove the offending garments from each other. They’re both totally nude now, rutting in the open like animals. The cool air pebbles her nipples and he can’t resist taking one, then the other in his mouth, her breasts plump and ripe just as he remembers.

“Gods, Dany,” he moans when she fists his cock again and starts pumping. He can take no more, and he circles her waist with one arm while bracing his weight with the other, because his legs are about to give way, he’s so intoxicated by this.

“Fuck me, Jon.”

He enters her with a powerful push, and she throws her head back. She braces her legs around his waist, and matches him stroke for stroke. His pelvis brushes her swollen clit as his cock fills her soaking cunt. Her walls squeeze him greedily, and he’s close to the edge, but holds out to ensure her pleasure first, coaxing it from her with each thrust. He lowers his eyes to watch as they join together, the lust it stokes sending him freewheeling.

“Look at me, love,” she pleads, and when his eyes meet hers, he’s done for, reaching that tipping point just as hers builds. He hangs on long enough to watch her shatter in his arms, her cunt spasming around his cock as his seed fills her.

“I love you,” he laments. “Gods, I love you….”

When he’s spent, he withdraws from her. He somehow manages to get himself up on the rock beside her, and they collapse together. Her hair is a mess, and he’s sweating like an animal, but it does not matter as they lie there and look up at the stars. When he comes back to himself, he rolls to his side. He kisses the underside of her breast and wonders if there’s time to have her again.

“Let’s go away somewhere,” he hears himself say, to his disbelief.

“Where shall we go?” She runs her fingers through his hair, as she used to do, when he’d fall asleep in her embrace after the exhaustion of making love to her consumed him.

“Don’t know,” he replies sleepily. “Don’t care. Just away. Maybe to Essos, or the Real North, it doesn’t matter.”

She continues stroking his hair. “We could have, years ago.”

“We still can.” It’s a weak argument, and nonsensical. He knows it as well as she does, he just wishes it could be different. 

“You have to let me go, Jon,” she sighs. “This is our life. No matter how much we wish it weren’t so.”

“I know.” He flops onto his back. He’s suddenly aware of his nakedness and wraps them both in his cloak. “At least we have the sunrise.”

_________________________

**_Eleven Months Later_ **

He sits at the table in his solar, breaking his fast. His Queen joined him, briefly, but had no appetite. She is again with child, but it’s early. He wasn’t able to share her bed for a full six months after returning from the south, not that she lamented his absence. They’d probably give up on the whole thing altogether, if not the constant nagging from his advisors that the North needs an heir. He’s come close to asking Sansa numerous times why she doesn’t wed and have one of her own if she’s so worried about it, but that would be cruel. Sansa will never bed another man. Not after what she suffered at Ramsay Bolton’s hands. And he doesn’t even know where the fuck Arya is. She comes and goes as she pleases, and has no interest in whelping heirs for the Northern throne. It makes him a little sad, though. He does want a child. Daenerys always believed she was barren, and he never managed to prove her wrong in their brief time together, and since the Prince Consort already has a son, it seems the line of succession in the South is more clear. But if Jon does not have a child of his own, it means that House Targaryen, the last of the blood of old Valyria, will die with him and Daenerys. No more dragon riders. No more anything. Even if he doesn’t call himself by his birth name, it still feels like a failure on his part.

He’s just finishing his bacon and beer when Sansa enters with the day’s correspondence in her arms. There seems to be a great deal to get to today, but he doesn’t really listen closely as she drones on about grain supplies and property disputes and troubles with the Free Folk in the Lonely Hills. Then her demeanor changes as she unfurls a scroll sealed with the three-headed dragon. Jon’s heart stills as she reads.

“It seems my uncle and his royal bride have welcomed a daughter,” she says contemptuously. She never let go of her irrational hatred of Daenerys, and her uncle marrying her perceived rival did nothing to change her heart. She tosses the scroll in Jon’s direction and as he reads, he feels that he may lose his breakfast.

She’s birthed a daughter, a little more than a moon past, the scroll reads. A new Princess of the Realm, called Rhaella, after the Queen’s mother.

He’s struck with a desire to take his horse from the stables and go for a long ride in the Wolfswood. Jealousy is a bitter tonic indeed.

“Then we all have a new cousin, I suppose,” he says, nonchalant, but Sansa is not fooled.

“Yes, it appears we do.”

“We should honor her with a gift. Perhaps a horse, or some jewels. Or maybe you could sew something. You were always so skilled with a needle and thread.”

Sansa sits across from him and folds her arms on the table. “I’m your Hand, Jon, not a seamstress. We’ll send our regards, don’t fret.”

He glares at her. “I’m not fretting.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow. “I must say, it’s impressive that my uncle got her pregnant so soon after their wedding.”

Jon takes one last drink of his beer, then wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look at the date of the child’s birth.” She points to it on the scroll. “Barely nine moons after their wedding? How convenient.”

He waves her off. “I’ll see to the rest of this. That will be all, sister.” 

After Sansa leaves, he leans back in his chair and re-reads the scroll, multiple times. He tries to be happy for Dany. He knows how desperately she wanted to be a mother, even if she tried to temper her expectations. He has wished so many times that he could have given her that. If only. In fact, the night they were together before her wedding….

He reads the scroll again. The gears begin to turn in his head. But he quickly dismisses it. It’s too ludicrous a thought to entertain. 

Carefully, he re-rolls the scroll and sets it aside.

  



End file.
